respect can be received, if not by all, at least by his brethren, he will neither have acted nor taught in vain. Of course, developing his own thoughts and life freely, he was charged by his opponents with faithlessness to the Church, and with latitudinarian opinions. But he rejoiced in finding within the Church of England room to expand his soul, and freedom for his intellect. He discovered the way to escape from the disadvantage I have mentioned, and yet to remain a true son of a Church which he loved and honored to the last. Moreover, he brought many into the Church of England: both Unitarians and Quakers, as well as men of other sects, were admitted by him into her communion. On the other hand, if the latter part of the accusation were true, and he was latitudinarian in opinion, it is at least remarkable that he should have induced in those who heard him profitably, not only a spiritual life, but also a high and punctilious morality. His hearers kept the Law all the better from being freed from the Law. And many a workingman in Brighton, many a business man in London, many a young officer, many a traveler upon the Continent, many a one living in the great world of politics or in the little world of fashion, can trace back to words heard in Trinity Chapel the creation in them of a loftier idea of moral action, and an abiding influence which has made their lives, in all their several spheres, if not religious, at least severely moral. These are some of the results which have flowed, and will continue to flow, from his work and life. They have been propagated by means of his published sermons. The extension of these sermons among all classes has been almost unexampled. Other sermons have had a larger circulation, but it has been confined within certain circles. These have been read and enjoyed by men of every sect and of every rank. They seem to come home to that human heart which lies beneath all our outward differences. Workingmen and women have spoken of them to me with delight. Clergymen of the most opposed views to his keep them in their bookcases and on their desks. But far beyond these outward tributes of respect, a more perennial one than all, is the epistle written by this man of God upon our hearts. That which God had given him, he has left to us. His spirit lives again in others; his thoughts move many whom he never saw, on to noble ends. Unconsciously he blesses, and has blessed. Yet not unconsciously now: I rejoice to think that now, at least, he is freed from the dark thought which oppressed his life,-that his ministry was a failure. I rejoice to think that he knows now-in that high Land where he is doing, with all his own vividness of heart, ampler work than his weary spirit could have done on earth-that his apparent defeat here was real Victory; that through him the Spirit of all Goodness has made men more true, more loving, and more pure. His books may perish, his memory fade, his opinions be superseded, as, in God's progressive education of the Universal Church, we learn to see more clearly into Truths whose relations are now obscure; but the Work which he has done upon human hearts is as imperishable as his own Immortality in God. THE EARTH AND MAN. A little sun, a little rain, A soft wind blowing from the west, And woods and fields are sweet again, And warmth within the mountain's breast. So simple is the earth we tread, So quick with love and life her frame, Ten thousand years have dawned and fled A little love, a little trust, A soft impulse, a sudden dream, Is fresher than a mountain stream. So simple is the heart of man, A MOMENT. To-day chance drove me to the wood, The soft west wind, the minister Of Love and Spring, blew as of old And moved the waters of the pool, DESERT IS LIFE. "Desert is Life, its fates are flame, "Prophet of God," the Arabs cried, "The sun darts death on heart and head; Here rest till starlight night be cool "— "Hell is hotter "-Mohammed said. JOHN BROUGHAM. (1810-1880.) THIS noted actor, theater manager, playwright, poet, and storywriter, was born in Dublin in 1810. He made his first appearance as an actor in 1830, and is said to have been the original of Lever's 'Harry Lorrequer.' In 1842 he came to America, and, with the exception of a short trip to England in 1860, he remained here until his death on June 7, 1880. The following lines to his memory by H. C. Bunner may fitly find a place here: "The actor's dead, and memory alone A memory, doomed to dwindle less and less, A tender smile about our old lips play, And if our grandchild query whence it came, We have, however, some more enduring monument than the memory of his acting, for, in addition to over one hundred comedies, farces, and burlesques, he wrote 'A Basket of Chips,' 'The Bunsby Papers,' 'Life Stories, and Poems.' Among his most successful plays were Vanity Fair,' 'The Irish Emigrant,' and 'The Game of Love.' He collaborated with Dion Boucicault in writing 'London Assurance.' ness. · NED GERAGHTY'S LUCK. CHAPTER I. Brave old Ireland is the land of Fairies, but of all the various descriptions there isn't one to be compared with the Leprechaun, in the regard of cunning and 'cuteNow if you don't know what a Leprechaun is, I'll tell you. Why, then-save us and keep us from harm, for they are queer chaps to gosther about-a Leprechaun is the fairies' shoemaker: and a mighty conceited little fellow he is, I assure you, and very mischievous, except where he might happen to take a liking. But, perhaps, the best way to give you an idea of their appearance and characteristics, will be to tell you a bit of a story about one. Once upon a time, then, many years ago, before the screech of the steam engine had frightened the "good people" out of their quiet nooks and corners, there lived a rollicking, good-natured, rakish boy, called Ned Geraghty; his father was the only miller in the neighborhood for miles round, and being a prudent, saving kind of an old hunk, was considered to be amazingly well off, and the name of the town they lived in would knock all the teeth out of the upper jaw of an Englishman to pronounce it was called Ballinaskerrybaughkilinashaghlin. Well, the boy, as he grew up to a man's estate, used to worry the old miller nearly out of his seven senses, he was such a devil-may-care good-for-nothing. Attend to anything that was said to him he would not, whether in the way of learning or of business. He upset inkbottle upon ink-bottle upon his father's account-books, such as they were; and at the poor apology for a school, which the bigotry of the reverend monopolizers of knowledge permitted to exist in Ball, the town-he was always famous for studying less and playing more, than any boy of his age in the barony. It isn't to be much wondered at then, that when, in the course of events, old Geraghty had the wheat of life threshed out of him by the flail of unpitying Time, Master Ned, his careless, reprobate son, was but little fitted to take his position as the head-miller of the country. But to show you the luck that runs after, and sticks close to some people, whether they care for it or not, as if, like love, it despiseth the too ardent seeker. Did you ever take notice, that two men might be fishing together at the same spot, with the same sort of tackle and the same sort of bait? One will get a bushel full before the other gets a bite that's luck,-not that there's any certainty about it; for the two anglers might change places to-morrow. Ah! it's an uncomfortable, deceiving, self-confidence-destroying, Jack-o'-lantern sort of thing is that same luck, and yet, how many people, especially our countrymen, cram their hands into their pockets, and fully expect that the cheating devil will filter gold through their fingers. |